Can You Imagine?
by speakingintothevoid
Summary: Non-romance. The Molly and Sherlock conversation we all deserved in The Final Problem. A Fix-it fic. She deserved a better ending.


Molly Hooper balanced a Styrofoam cup in her teeth as she unlocked the door to the morgue and stepped inside. She went to her desk and plunked down a stack of paper and several clipboards and then, on instinct, whirled around, cup still clenched in her teeth. Despite how often Sherlock Holmes had appeared ominously looming in one of these half-lit corners, Molly on seeing him suppressed a small yelp and stumbled backwards. Fortunately, the cup contained nothing more offensive than water, but she smacked the droplets off the front of her smock with a small frown.

"So sorry…!" Sherlock exclaimed, stepping swiftly towards her, but she arrested him with one upraised hand and sank down into her office chair with dignity, typing swiftly onto her tablet. "Not ignoring you," she said, "have to type these in before I forget."

He nodded silently.

A minute later, she spun the chair around. "Alright," she said, and it was a question.

Sherlock stood with his hands clasped behind him, like a child reciting a poem. "There is a case that isn't going to appear on the blog."

"Alright," she said.

"Keeping this case a secret is a matter of national security – international security, rather. Also there is a certain familial delicacy in it for me which I should very much like to keep private. It's very important that no one knows anything about it. I'm going to tell it to you."

Molly folded her arms across her stomach and settled her shoulders back onto the wall. "Alright."

"I have a sister," Sherlock began. "Her name is Eurus." As he told the story, Molly's eyes ran up and down him, reading his mindset in his body, noting a slight quiver in the corner of his lip. He held himself still, but told the tale expansively, richly. "She had already killed five people to my certain knowledge by this point," he was saying. The story was absurd. Convoluted and impossible and none of it really surprising to her. "I couldn't have done it with a gun to my head, but the gun was to yours," he was saying. She had known there would be an explanation, she had known that he would not make it that easy for her to hate him. "There was no bomb," he was saying. "Mycroft telephoned as soon as he was free and sent a team to check the flat. It was clean."

"The cameras?" she asked. She was so tired.

"The team found and removed them all," he said. "Where are you going?"

"I'm standing right here."

"You packed for a trip this morning," he said. "Your outfit suggests…"

"No," she raised a hand again and he cut himself off sharply.

She took a breath and ran a hand down her arm, self-comforting. "I've never taken a day off. I mean – of course – sick days and holidays but precious little of them, really. I have a lot of days saved up – is what I'm saying – so I'm going on a cruise. Please don't ask where. Please don't – " she closed her eyes "please don't _already_ _know_ where."

He looked heavy, reprimanded.

"You told the story well," she continued, with a small smile. "You told it like John. You read the blog, don't you?"

"Molly," he said. "I've come to ask – I've come to beg for your forgiveness. I failed you."

She smiled at the floor. "But your parents seem so nice, so normal. Where did the genes come from, I wonder?"

"Molly…"

"It's forgiven." She looked at him seriously. "I'll be leaving tonight. Please don't call. I think I have to sell my flat, as well. Even if they got rid of the cameras." He opened his mouth, but she cut him off, "I'm sorry, I don't much like your sister. Maybe skip her gift this Christmas. Maybe just a card."

"Was I wrong to have told you?" he asked.

"Keeping secrets from people – out of love, to keep them safe – that's what started all of this, isn't it? The truth isn't yours to control, Sherlock."

"Often it is."

"I have to go back to my lab now," she said.

He stood in silence as she gathered up her clipboards again.

She brushed past him to the door and pulled it open, then stopped, bracing it with her toe. She turned back to him slowly. "Send my love to the baby, and John of course. I'm not at all jealous of him, you know," she said, with a small smile. "At least – I'm glad you have each other. He's made you – much more, I think."

That head tilt, those crinkled eye – the poor lost lamb. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing. I don't mean anything. I just – thought I should say it."

"So is it… is it over then? This isn't really my area."

"What, apologizing? You did alright."

"No, I meant… friends. Are we friends?"

"I don't know. You hurt me, Sherlock. And you had a reason and it wasn't like you, maybe, but… it hurt me."

"I know," he said.

"You don't," she replied, more sharply than she'd meant. "Please don't call. Or – text. Or whatever." She turned to leave and then stopped herself again. "I'll call you when I'm home. And when I'm ready. In case you two need a sitter, or a corpse person."

"Be safe," he said.

She smiled at him, gently. "That's being a friend, Sherlock. Telling the truth. Looking out for each other. He has, you know – made you more. I'll call you in three weeks. I'll need someone to help me move into the new flat." She nodded, soberly this time, and let the door fall shut behind her.


End file.
